


Great and More Fortunate Things

by zopyrus



Category: Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/pseuds/zopyrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: A conversation with Crixus prompts Naevia to confide in Pietros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Great and More Fortunate Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inner_v0ice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inner_v0ice/gifts).



Naevia lives for her visits with Crixus. 

With his wounds still healing, they aren’t even really doing anything wrong--speaking kindly to her mistress’s favorite could hardly be considered a crime--but in some ways, Naevia feels more exhilarated now than she did when they were only fucking.  Speaking to Crixus, being _spoken to_ by him--is somehow more intimate than sex. 

It’s also frequently much more awkward.  Naevia might have been a virgin before Crixus touched her, but Lucretia had long since taught her a thing or two about what she could do with her tongue.  What Naevia was _never_ taught is how to talk to a man who seems incapable of even choosing—let alone following normally--a topic of conversation.  Would he like to hear about her childhood?   Recent gossip from Mira?  Her sexual fantasies?  (Is he even awake?  On the rare occasions Naevia manages to lull him to sleep, she isn’t sure if she should be relieved or offended.)  No matter what she talks about, it never stops him from breaking in at the worst time to tell her something bizarrely unrelated about himself. 

Her eyes remind him of the dark of a storm he saw when he was a child.  Her hair inspires him to tell her his mother’s name.  (Naevia locks that away in her heart, an unsurpassable treasure.  Far better than the necklace he would have given her; and safer, too, for no one will ever take it from her.)

She doesn’t care about the awkwardness.  (She does hope it will pass, in time--just as his wounds will soon be a problem of the past.  She wonders if they’ll fuck _and_ talk, when he’s regained his strength and honed his conversational skills.)

Tonight, Crixus asks her something. 

“How is the boy holding up?”

His voice is a comforting, exasperating croak.  Naevia forgets herself for a moment before she realizes he must mean Pietros.

Talking about Pietros means talking about Barca.

Naevia has been carefully avoiding any mention of Barca.  She has been terrified to even _think_ about Barca.  Naevia has no particular illusions about Crixus’ powers of deduction, but she knows it is very wrong not to tell a man about his brother’s death—all the more so when his brother lies very much unavenged.  She is afraid that guilt, and love of Crixus, will force the secret out of her.

Naevia has realized only recently how much she hates lying.

Even if Crixus could forgive her for lying, Naevia knows she still mustn’t ever tell him.  Telling him would be killing him: she doesn’t have to know Crixus as well as she does to know that he is not a subtle man.  True, he has kept _their_ secret for this long: but she knows Crixus would never stay silent if he learned the truth about Barca.  She has an idea of what he would try to do.  Weak as he is now, she knows he would fail.

“It isn’t right,” she says, hotly.  Then she catches herself: “I mean it isn’t right how he’s been treated.”  She tells Crixus about Pietros’ bruises.  She tells Crixus about the way he limps across the training ground in the mornings.  She tells Crixus what Mira told her about that bastard Gnaeus.

Crixus says, matter-of-factly, “When I am better, I will rip out his cock.”  He considers a moment.  “Never saw what Barca saw in that boy, to be honest.  And he must have known this would happen, so he can’t have cared much.”  Naevia watches his face.  She’s learned that he feels things without showing them, and she hopes that someday she’ll know, from the quirk of his brow or the set of his mouth, if he’s happy or sad or neither.  She thinks he’s hiding pain now, more pain than his wound warrants.

“But,” rasps Crixus, “Barca was my friend.  I mean I thought he was.  The man I thought was my friend would never have allowed this to happen.”

It’s more meaningful words than he’s strung together over anything.  “I wish I could do something,” she says, pathetically.  It’s nothing to do with her, but the lie she is telling makes her feel responsible.

“Find Pietros,” says Crixus, clasping her hand.  “Tell him things will change when that whelp Spartacus isn’t in charge anymore.  And tell him what I said about Gnaeus’ cock.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Naevia’s not sure now that she shouldn’t have waited for light, but she had left Crixus consumed with purpose, and anyway she’s gotten used to sneaking around in the dark.  (She just hopes belatedly that when she finds Pietros she will find him alone).

Pietros _is_ alone, thank Juno, and he is awake, sitting listless and silent, in the room where Barca must have slept.  There are birds everywhere, sleeping.  He doesn’t hear her at first and when he does he jumps up, startled.  Naevia puts a finger to her lips, whispers, “May I come in?”

Naevia has known a lot of girls during her time in Batiatus’ house.  She knows how lucky she is to be Lucretia’s favorite, untouchable.  She can’t imagine that Pietros is really afraid of her, but even so she does her best not to alarm him, moving slowly as she enters the room.

She doesn’t think Crixus’ message is going to help very much.

“Why are you here?” asks Pietros.  He sounds genuinely confused.  Even in the dark, she can tell how hurt he is.  She can see it in how stiffly he holds himself, can hear it in the tightness of his voice.

Naevia opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.  (Maybe it’s not Crixus’ fault most of their conversations go in circles: Naevia is clearly deficient at speaking to men.)  “I wanted to tell you... to ask...”

She stops.  Pietros is looking at her.  His expression is neutral but something in his eyes brings her back to that night, to the image of Barca’s body in the pool.  She thinks about the blood.  She thinks about Lucretia.

She thinks about the blood, again.  She thinks about deceit and betrayal.

“Crixus is stupid,” says Naevia.  “But you’re not.”

Pietros raises an eyebrow.

“I have to tell you a secret,” says Naevia.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to Inner Voice's request "for Pietros to get a bit of plot for himself after Barca's death." Admittedly Pietros doesn't get much of a plot in this, but I hope I have opened the door for him at least a bit. Happy Yuletide!


End file.
